Quintessence
by merduff
Summary: House learns four elemental lessons about Wilson
1. Earth

**EARTH (lead me to safety)**

In retrospect, it wasn't one of House's wiser decisions, though compared to a lifetime of reckless acts, a simple walk in the woods was relatively tame. But then there wasn't anything simple about walking, not any more.

The problem was, he was bored. That had always been his problem. His mother had learned quickly to keep him occupied with approved projects and activities, as his unapproved initiatives generally led to bodily harm or property damage. Stacy had discovered the hard way that his destruction only took on more creative forms when he was confined to a bed. But Stacy was gone now, and it didn't matter what she knew any more.

The only reason he had agreed to give an out-of-town lecture on infectious diseases in immunocompromised patients was because he was bored. It had nothing to do with Wilson being on the conference organizing committee. It wasn't because Wilson would be out of town for the first time since Stacy left. And it wasn't because Wilson claimed they'd had a last-minute cancellation and House would be doing him a favour.

It might have had something to do with the brochure Wilson "accidentally" left on the coffee table a few days before his supposed cancellation. "You chose this place, didn't you?" House guessed. It had a kind of rustic decadence that screamed James Wilson. Full-service spa, four-star restaurant, golf course, and theatre, all nestled between mountains and lake. "I thought you were organizing an oncology conference, not a quilting retreat," he mocked, reading the sales copy.

"There's an OTB tele-theatre in one of the lounges," Wilson pointed out. "You'll love this place."

It could be worse, House decided. The conference only lasted three days, and he was sick of looking at the inside of his apartment. "As long as you don't expect me to attend any of the other lectures," he agreed, not sounding nearly as reluctant as he'd intended.

"I think everyone would be happier if you played hooky," Wilson replied dryly. It almost sounded like a dare.

Which was how he found himself sitting in a conference room bored nearly to catatonia while second-rate oncologists tried to find fault with Wilson's work. House had read the paper prior to publication, so he knew they were fighting a losing battle. He also knew that Wilson would kill him, or at least cut off his Vicodin supply, if House said anything in his defense. It was safer just to slip out the back and find something to distract himself with until dinner.

But he'd been banned from the OTB lounge after an altercation with a particularly stupid weekend gambler, and the entertainment in the other bar was a tuneless lounge lizard, so he retreated to the room to watch pay-per-view porn.

As one of the conference organizers, Wilson had been given his pick of accommodation: a two-bedroom suite on the ground floor with a private Jacuzzi. It had a patio entrance opening onto the lakeshore, which Wilson had used at an obscene hour that morning, slipping out for an hour of fishing before breakfast. House had almost been tempted to join him — if only to mess with Wilson's mind — but he'd seen the dew slick on the grass and gone back to bed.

Now, though, he was drawn outside. He'd relearned to walk on linoleum and concrete, supported by crutches and parallel bars. It had been months since he'd felt real earth beneath his feet.

He glanced at his watch. The afternoon sessions would be ending in just under an hour. Plenty of time to explore one of the lakeside trails and get back before Wilson shook loose the sycophants who had signed up for his presentation. It hadn't rained in days, and the ground stayed firm beneath his cane. He slid the door closed behind him and strolled down to the lake.

He walked for twenty minutes before he started to tire, less interested in his surroundings than in the pleasure of just walking. The pain was there — it was always there — but the last Vicodin he'd taken had muted it to a level he could almost ignore.

He stopped to rest, lowering himself carefully onto a log, and stretched his leg out. He kneaded the remaining muscles in his thigh absently, content just to let the world revolve around him. He had always been a solitary explorer, but he found himself wishing that Wilson were with him. Maybe he would get up early the next morning. Wilson, he knew, would make sure he didn't fall.

When he looked at his watch again, he realized nearly half an hour had passed. Wilson would be wondering where he'd gone. Not that he cared if Wilson worried, but House didn't want to listen to him lecture and complain for the rest of the weekend.

It was harder to stand than it had been to sit down — his leg had stiffened, and the first step shot an unwelcome bolt of agony from his hip to his ankle. It was going to be a long walk back to the room. It only got longer when he took a wrong turn and found himself on a trail leading away from the lake. He stopped to rest and get his bearings, but the log he sat on shifted abruptly and he slid off, jarring his leg.

It was a moment before he could catch his breath and sit up. It became a longer one when he realized that he'd left the bottle of Vicodin back in the room. He tried standing, but his leg wouldn't hold his weight, and he fell again. Short of crawling, he was stranded until the pain backed down. Wilson was going to kill him, if he didn't die of exposure first.

He wasn't sure how long he had sat there, but the shadows had lengthened and obscured the path by the time he heard a familiar voice calling his name. "Over here!" he shouted, not knowing where _here_ was, but trusting Wilson to find him. Wilson always found him. He leaned back against the treacherous log and closed his eyes.

"Jesus, House," Wilson said, kneeling down beside him. "What have you done to yourself now?"

House opened his eyes when he heard the welcome rattle of a pill bottle. He held out his hand and dry-swallowed the two pills Wilson gave him. He was getting better at that. "How did you find me?" he asked when the Vicodin finally kicked in.

"Eagle Scout tracking skills," Wilson replied. "Uneven footprints. Nice round indentations from the cane. And there's a crack on the sole of your right running shoe." He grinned when House glanced down. "Actually, I just picked the closest trail and hoped for the best."

"How did you know to look?" House clarified.

This time Wilson looked smug. "The door was latched from the inside," he said. "But the patio door was unlocked. If you'd gone anywhere else, you would have left by the front door."

"So you decided to follow the cripple. Didn't think I could look after myself?"

Wilson tactfully didn't point out that in fact House _had_ needed his help. "You know me," he said lightly. "Can't stand to be left behind."

"Don't sit on the log," House warned as Wilson lowered himself to the ground. "It's evil." He tilted his head back and looked up through a break in the trees. It would be dark soon, but he no longer cared. Wilson would lead them back to safety. "How did the rest of the lecture go?" he asked casually.

"Same old, same old," Wilson replied. "Mullins from Mass Gen challenged every point I made, my old supervisor from Penn called him an incompetent asshole, and two guys from Mercy talked about their golf game through the Q&A."

"I'm sorry I missed that," House said. He liked nothing more than taunting overrated society quacks. "Feel free to point them out to me in the lounge later." The smirk on Wilson's face was almost as good as an extra Vicodin.

"How's your leg doing?" Wilson asked, shifting to squat in front of him. "Do you think you can stand?"

House had his doubts. But he let Wilson help him up and found walking wasn't that bad when he had more than a cane to lean on.


	2. Water

**WATER (never let me go)**

House opened his eyes. Hospital room. Minimal machines. That was good. Something shifted at his side and he turned his head, expecting to see Wilson dozing in a chair. But it was Cuddy, and she wasn't dozing.

She glanced up from the file she was studying. "Good, you're awake. It's about time."

"How long?" he asked. His voice was weak, raspy, and she poured him a glass of water.

"Nearly 12 hours. You slept like a big, ugly baby."

"What are you doing here?" It wasn't Princeton-Plainsboro. Too many walls, not enough glass.

"This may come as a surprise to you, but I get phoned when two of my department heads are admitted to another hospital." The sarcasm couldn't hide her concern. It was almost comforting. "I've made arrangements for you to be transferred later today."

House glanced around the room. "Where's Wilson?"

"Sleeping. In the next room." But she looked away.

"What's wrong with him?" he demanded. "He was fine. He swam us to safety."

"That's right," Cuddy replied. "He towed your sorry ass along with him for god knows how long. Strangely, that takes a toll on a person."

House touched the side of his head, felt the bump there, and tried to remember. "We got caught in a current. Wilson tried to swim back to the boat, but it just kept drifting further away. So he swam us parallel to the shore until we could head in." He closed his eyes. "I wasn't much use, but he wouldn't leave me." He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness, the sound of Wilson's harsh breathing, and finally the feel of sand and rocks beneath his hands. "What happened to him?"

"I don't know, exactly. He got you to shore, found somebody to get help, even warned them about your leg. Then he collapsed." She put a hand on House's shoulder when he tried to sit up. "He's going to be all right. His vitals are strong. We're replacing the fluids he lost and we're monitoring him closely just to be safe, but he's going to recover."

"I want to see him."

"He needs to rest."

House succeeded in sitting up this time. "I'm not going to disturb him. I just want to see him." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but hesitated before trying to stand. He was going to need help. "He saved my life, Cuddy. He could have stayed on the boat, stayed safe, but he dove in to help me. I need to see him."

For a minute he thought she would hold firm, but Cuddy always folded eventually. "I'll get you a wheelchair. You can visit him if you take the chair and if you promise not to wake him."

He unhooked his IV while she was gone and grabbed a robe off the dresser. He waited, though, until she returned with the chair. His cane was at the bottom of the ocean and he was too weak to walk far without it. By the time Cuddy returned, he was desperate to get into the next room. Cuddy couldn't push the chair fast enough.

When they arrived, however, House wished he were still asleep. Wilson was still and pale in the bed, connected to a heart monitor and with a nasal cannula providing oxygen. "You said he was fine," House accused.

"I said he was going to recover," she replied. "His BP bottomed out on the way to the hospital. It's under control now, but nobody is taking any chances. We're taking good care of him, House."

"Give me his chart," House demanded. He studied the story of the past twelve hours, tracking Wilson's recovery. "His electrolytes are still off." He scanned the tape from the cardiac monitor. "I don't like those spikes in his sinus rhythm. Has he been assessed by a cardiologist?"

"He's getting the best care possible," Cuddy soothed. "Kirkwood has been consulting with the cardiac team here. He's getting regular updates and he assures me there's nothing to be concerned about in the long run."

House wasn't concerned about the long run. He was worried about the present. He saw Wilson's lashes flutter and he pushed himself upright, gripping tightly on the bedrail to stay standing. "Wilson?" he whispered cautiously.

Wilson's head tilted towards the sound and his eyes half-opened and closed. House reached out and touched his cheek. The skin was cool, and House was satisfied with the turgidity. This time Wilson's eyes stayed open.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Hey, yourself," House replied. "You're supposed to be sleeping. Cuddy'll be pissed at me for waking you up." He glanced at her, but she seemed more relieved than angry that Wilson was awake. He wondered how bad Wilson had been when they'd been brought in. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

Wilson closed his eyes and then opened them wider. "You didn't wake me. Woke myself." He shifted, trying to sit up, but he was too weak. Cuddy raised the head of his bed, and he smiled gratefully at her.

"How are you feeling?" House asked. He wrapped his fingers around Wilson's wrists, monitoring his pulse for his own peace of mind. Even machines lied.

"Tired," Wilson replied. He studied House carefully. "What about you?"

"Better than you," House boasted. His fingers tightened around Wilson's wrist. "You moron. You should have stayed on the boat."

Wilson smiled and closed his eyes. "You're just pissed because I saved your life, and now you owe me."

"I owe you?" House replied with faux outrage. "Whose idea was it to leave the safety of dry land?"

"Who fell out of a boat after refusing to put on a life vest?" Wilson countered. "I wouldn't have had to leave the boat if you did what I said, just once."

"Life vests are for wimps," House muttered.

Wilson opened his eyes again, his eyebrows stretching high in a sardonic arch. "Funny. You didn't think that when I gave you mine."

"You idiot!" Cuddy exclaimed.

House blinked. He'd almost forgotten Cuddy was still in the room. Her outburst wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the person at whom she was yelling. She was glaring at Wilson, who looked even more startled than House felt. "Are you trying to throw your voice?" House asked.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded, ignoring House. That, at least, was typical.

"I was thinking that House would have a hard time treading water for long with a bum leg and a possible concussion," Wilson replied calmly. "And I was thinking I couldn't swim _and_ keep him afloat wearing a bulky life jacket. Easier just to tow him."

Cuddy looked away. "And what if you hadn't been able to keep _yourself_ afloat?" she asked softly.

House sat back down in the chair and tried not to think about Wilson disappearing under the surface of the ocean. He glanced up sharply at Wilson's reply.

"Then House would still have been safe."

Sometimes the weight of being Wilson's friend was almost too much to bear. It was impossible to live up to that kind of loyalty, so most of the time House didn't even try. "Cuddy's right," he snapped. "You _are_ an idiot." He started to wheel the chair away, but Cuddy blocked his path.

"You don't get to demand that I bring you here and then leave when you hear something you don't like," she snapped. And the earth righted on its axis.

"He needs to rest and regain his strength," House retorted. "I'm planning on going skydiving without a parachute next week, and I need someone to catch me." He whipped his head around when Wilson chuckled softly.

"What makes you think I'd let you fall in the first place?" Wilson was smiling, but House knew he was deadly serious.

That was the problem. House could leave — and he had no compunctions about wheeling right through Cuddy to make his escape — but Wilson would never let go. House didn't know whether that should reassure or terrify him.


	3. Air

**AIR (follow me into danger)**

Later, they argued about whose fault it was. Or rather House argued, Wilson rolled his eyes, Bonnie glared disapprovingly at him, and Stacy said that it was people who refused to take personal responsibility for their actions that made litigation lawyers rich. But House knew it wasn't his fault.

It was Bonnie's fault for pointing out that the concurrent nephrology and oncology conferences in Honolulu were the perfect opportunity for a joint holiday, even though she couldn't stand House and barely knew Stacy.

It was Wilson's fault for being such a pussy and giving in to his wife. If she hadn't wanted a vacation in the sun, Wilson would have been screwing hula girls like all the other married doctors instead of dragging the four of them to every tourist trap in the islands.

It was Stacy's fault for suggesting they visit the Pali Lookout in the first place, when she knew damn well that all House wanted to do was sit by the pool and get smashed on mai tais. "The view is spectacular," she said, and House wondered why she needed to see it again if she'd already been there.

But it was Wilson who set things in motion by thumbing through the guidebook and telling House about the Battle of Nu'uanu, where Kamehameha the Great drove the defending Oahu army over the Pali edge. "Legend has it," he told House, "that so many men died that day the wind will push back anyone who tries to jump to their death." Wilson should have known better than to tell him something interesting like that.

It wasn't enough just to stand in the safety of the fenced lookout as the tourist drones pressed their hats to their heads and chattered about the cheesy luau they'd gone to the night before or leaned forward, arms spread-eagle, and let the wind hold them upright. House climbed over the fence and picked his way closer to the edge of the cliff, imagining he was a doomed Oahu warrior backing slowly to his death.

If Wilson weren't such a killjoy, he wouldn't have shouted at House to get back, which only encouraged House to move closer to the edge. And if Wilson weren't such a klutz, he wouldn't have caught his foot on the fence and fallen trying to follow, making House turn to laugh at him. He was distracted, House decided later. That was why he suddenly stepped back into air. It had nothing to do with standing too close to the edge of the cliff.

No, it was definitely Wilson's fault.

At the time he was too concerned with not dying to assign blame. For an instant, he balanced perfectly, one leg stretched out into nothingness, arms flung wide, the wind pushing him forward to safety. But then a rock shifted beneath his grounded foot and he fell, landing hard and sliding over the edge of the cliff. He clawed frantically for purchase, catching hold of a vine and slowing his descent just long enough for Wilson to dive and grab his wrist. But neither Wilson nor the vine was a match for gravity. The vine pulled loose, and House slipped over the edge, dragging Wilson with him.

"Let go!" House shouted, because the only thing worse than dying was Wilson dying, and the two of them dying together wasn't heroic, or romantic, or even ironic. It was just stupid. But Wilson's hands were gripping his wrist tightly enough to cut off blood flow, and Wilson was screaming at him to find a foothold, so for once House decided to stop arguing.

He stretched his left foot out until he touched the side of the cliff and found a foothold, then jammed his fingers into a crevice. Their downward slide halted long enough for Wilson to grind the tips of his sneakers into the dirt, but then another gust of wind knocked House off his foothold, and Wilson cried out as his arms took the full brunt of House's weight again.

"I said let go!" House screamed as Wilson's upper body was pulled over the edge, but Wilson shook his head and held firm, his arms corded and trembling from the strain, his eyes squeezed closed in concentration. For a moment, House hung suspended, only Wilson's hands preventing him from dropping 1000 feet to the forest below. Then House found another foothold, someone grabbed Wilson's legs, and the only thing moving was the air. Long seconds later, a rope dropped beside him and he snatched at it with his free hand, and they were rising, pulled back onto solid ground.

He lay face pressed against the earth for a moment, letting the adrenaline rush through him as he shook hard enough to set his teeth chattering. He tried to push himself upright, but Wilson's hands still clenched his wrist. "You can let go now," House said, his voice unsteady.

Wilson shook his head. "Can't," he said. "Can't let go." His eyes were still closed and he was panting, nearly hyperventilating.

A shadow passed over them and House looked up. Stacy was staring down at them, her face pale beneath a newly cultivated tan. She was breathing almost as heavily as Wilson, and one hand still clutched the rope. House glanced past her to where Bonnie was tearfully thanking the three men who had helped pull them up. House caught Stacy's eye and jerked his head towards Wilson.

She nodded and knelt down beside them. "It's okay, James," she murmured, rubbing his back soothingly. "You did it. He's safe now."

Wilson shuddered and let out a shaky laugh. "Can't make my fingers work," he admitted and opened his eyes. His pupils were blown wide with fear and it was like looking into two bottomless pits. House felt as though he were falling again.

"That's okay," he said. "Take your time. I don't need circulation in my fingers."

Wilson laughed again and managed to pry his fingers open. "No offence, House, but you could stand to lose a few pounds." He sat up and groaned, rotating his shoulders. "We should get back over the fence before somebody reports what happened."

House rolled his eyes. "I don't think you have to worry about Danno booking you." But he stood up and held out his hand before deciding that pulling on Wilson's arm probably wasn't a good idea. He didn't know how to say thank you, so he let Stacy hug Wilson for him, and didn't make any sarcastic remarks when Bonnie nearly knocked Wilson over again with her own embrace.

As soon as they were safely over the fence, Bonnie punched House hard on the shoulder. It hurt more than House would have expected. Bonnie had always struck him as a lightweight in just about everything.

Wilson stepped between them before she could swing again, enveloping Bonnie in a hug when she started to cry. "It's okay," he soothed. "Everything's okay."

House made a gagging noise, then flinched when Stacy hit his other shoulder. "What?" he mouthed, but she just shook her head.

"You're an ass," she said, but there was a gleam in her eye that promised angry, life-affirming sex when they got back to the hotel. House hoped Wilson hadn't made reservations for dinner.

Bonnie took a deep, shuddering breath and then turned to face House again. "You never listen to anyone," she accused. "You always do exactly what you want, and every time you get into trouble, you drag James along with you." She choked back a sob when she realized what she'd said. "He'd walk through fire for you, and you don't give a damn. You don't care that you're not just risking your own life with these stupid, selfish stunts."

"Hey, hey," Wilson said. "I'm all right. Nothing's going to happen to me." He turned her back to face him and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. He pulled her close again, and smirked at House over the top of her head. "I promise I'll let go next time."

House watched Wilson comfort his wife, murmuring his reassuring lies in her ear. He thought again about those Oahu warriors, driven to the edge with not even the wind to hold them up, only the implacable foe moving ever forward.

Bonnie was wrong. He cared, but he couldn't protect Wilson any more than he could protect himself.


	4. Fire

**FIRE (never make me choose)**

House heard the sirens before he saw the flashing lights. It took another minute to realise that they were in front of his apartment building, and he broke into as close to a run as he could manage. "What the hell!" he exclaimed as he pushed through the crowd of spectators. Two firetrucks and an ambulance were blocking the street, and he could see the remnants of smoke still trailing out the windows of the building. He was annoyed, but he didn't become worried until he saw a familiar silver Volvo parked just up the street. "Wilson!" he shouted, scanning the faces around him. No brown-haired oncologists in sight. He ducked under a barrier and grabbed hold of the nearest fireman. "Did you get everybody out?" he demanded, still looking around. "That's my apartment. My friend's in there."

The fireman pulled free. "There's no one inside, sir."

"Then where is he?" His eyes darted about the scene until at last they fell on a blanket-shrouded figure sitting on the bumper of the ambulance. "Wilson!"

The figure looked up, then stood up and hurried towards him. "House! Thank god." When Wilson reached him, he grabbed House's shoulders.

House was going to protest — he didn't do hugs, _Wilson_ didn't do hugs — but Wilson's hands were trembling. He reached up and patted Wilson awkwardly on the back, then pushed him away. "What's wrong with you?"

Wilson's bangs were plastered to his forehead, and soot streaked his face like tears. "I thought you were in there. I got here and saw the smoke and called 911, but your bike was out front and I thought maybe you'd fallen asleep smoking, or left the stove on. I couldn't find you inside, but it was hard to see, and I thought maybe I'd missed you somehow." He paused to catch his breath and coughed.

House dragged him back to his perch on the bumper. "I'm right here. I just went for a walk."

Wilson stared up at him. "A walk?" He laughed and let his head droop forward. When he pulled the blanket around him again, House could see that his left hand was bandaged.

He took it gently and examined it. "Burned?" he asked. "How badly?" he pressed when Wilson nodded.

"Second degree," Wilson murmured. "The door knob was hot."

"And you went in anyway."

Wilson shook his head. "I'm not that stupid," he objected, smiling wryly. "Broke the bedroom window. Went in that way."

House wondered what other injuries the blanket was hiding. "Did you cut yourself anywhere? What about smoke inhalation?"

"I'm okay," Wilson said. "The paramedics checked me out. Nothing serious."

But House was already pulling the blanket away. "What do they know?" He searched Wilson carefully for injuries, satisfied when he found only the one burn and a superficial cut on one arm. "Okay," he muttered, draping the blanket back over Wilson's shoulders. "I guess you're all right."

"Steve's all right, too," Wilson said, coughing lightly into his hand. He nodded to the side, where the rat's cage was sheltered under another blanket.

"You got Steve out?" House asked, not sure whether to be relieved or appalled. "You don't even like Steve."

"That doesn't mean I was going to let him suffocate to death," Wilson replied. "You don't have one of those Save My Pet stickers on your door, so the firemen wouldn't have known to get him." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I'll pick one up for you tomorrow."

"Don't forget to get a Save My Idiotic Friend sticker while you're at it," House snapped.

"It'll be next on my list after I get the Ungrateful Bastard bumper sticker for you."

House glared at him. "Why should I be grateful? Because you saved a rat? Let me call the mayor's office, issue a press release."

Wilson just stared at him, his dark eyes all too readable. After a moment, he laid the blanket neatly on the bumper, stood up, and started walking towards his car.

"Where are you going?" House demanded. "Are you just going to leave me to deal with this on my own?" It was the wrong thing to say. Normally, he delighted in saying the wrong thing, in leaving ripples of outrage in his wake, but not when the only result was to make Wilson walk away faster. "Wilson, wait!" he shouted, following in his friend's wake.

Wilson stopped and hung his head. "What do you want me to do?" he said, when House caught up. "Call your insurance agent? Book a hotel room for you?" He paused to cough again and House flinched at the sound. "I wish you'd make up your mind whether or not you want my help."

It wasn't a question of wanting or even needing. "I can call the agent. And book the hotel room. And whatever else needs to be done." He forced himself to look directly at Wilson, even if it meant getting lost in that sad, dark look. "I don't need your help. I just want you to stay."

Wilson rubbed his eyes and then nodded. "How about you come with me instead?" he said softly. "There's nothing we can do here now. We'll grab something to eat, call the agent, and meet back here."

The last thing House wanted to do was eat, but a strong cup of coffee with a shot of something stronger in it would be welcome. "Give me your keys. I'll drive." It meant he had control over where they went, which included the nearest emergency room if Wilson kept coughing. Wilson handed them over without protest, which did nothing to reassure House.

"Stay here," Wilson ordered. "I know you don't need my help, but you don't need to alienate the fire department either."

House watched as he talked to the fireman in charge and then detoured back to the ambulance to pick up Steve's cage. "He should be all right in the back seat of the car," Wilson said when he returned.

"Would you stop with the rat?" House exclaimed.

Wilson blinked. "Well, we can't just leave him on the sidewalk."

House hated it when Wilson was reasonable. It made him want to rip the cage out of Wilson's hand and toss it into the garbage. "He's a rat!" House shouted. "He has a life expectancy of one year undomesticated. He's already living on borrowed time." He laughed when Wilson turned his body to shield the cage.

"It's not funny, House," Wilson retorted. "I know you care about Steve. You never would have kept him if you didn't."

"What do you want, Wilson? Do you want me to get sentimental over a rodent that I was willing to sacrifice for _Foreman_? Do you really think I care more about a rat than I do about you?" He clamped his mouth shut, angry that he'd been goaded into saying more than he'd wanted.

Wilson walked to the car, but passed House closely enough to brush shoulders lightly. "It's not a zero-sum game," he chided.

He waited until House unlocked the car and then settled the cage securely in the back seat, buckling the seatbelt around it. House wondered how Wilson could be so insanely cautious about everything but himself. "You know what's a zero-sum game? Arguing with you. Even when I win, I've lost moments from my life that I'll never get back."

"So if you always lose, then I must always win," Wilson replied without missing a beat. "Works for me."

It worked for House too. Wilson was safe. _Steve_ was safe. His apartment was probably trashed, but his insurance was up-to-date. Maybe this time, everybody won.


End file.
